Rowdy Misadventures in Redcliffe
by Monkey Shines
Summary: Also known as Randy Redcliffe, this is an epic tale of lust and lunacy set in the deceptively peaceful town of Redcliffe.
1. Teagan's Problem

_Join us for the very first episode of _Rowdy Misadventures in Redcliffe_, where Bann Teagan has a problem._

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Sweat beads on Bann Teagan's forehead while he dresses for his daily walk around Redcliffe. He is too late for it already. Anxiously he ties the waistband of the tan trench coat that showcases his trim form so perfectly. Not that that's the reason he is wearing the thing. On his head the green hunting cap with the pheasant's tail feather, and he is good to go. With resolute steps Teagan strides out of Castle Redcliffe; he doesn't even notice Lady Isolde, whose languished eyes follow him until she can see him no more.

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Kaitlyn screams in surprise when an unknown man unexpectedly jumps before her, the lapels of his coat parted conspicuously. The cap he is wearing fully conceals his identity. Even worse, it's not the cap that draws her attention. Oh, the horror: the man is wearing nothing underneath his coat! A fearsomely large, twitching cock is practically winking at her. Oddly enough, the anonymous assailant appears to be reciting poetry: "There once was a man from Nantucket, who had a cock so long he could suck it..." The poor girl shrieks; such foul words, and the mental image! Dear Maker, _no_! Undauntedly, he carries on: "So he said with a grin, as he wiped off his chin: 'If my ear were a cunt, I would fuck it!'" Overtaken by shock, horror and disgust, Kaitlyn swoons.

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Teagan neatly closes his coat again and looks down on his victim with a slight pang of regret. He really doesn't enjoy scaring the poor villagers of Redcliffe, but he has no choice. If he doesn't expose himself to several people daily, he breaks out in hives, starts sweating and shivering... It's not pretty. Not at all. In fact, he can already feel a tremor setting into his hands. So he spies around for someone else to flash.

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Slowly Kaitlyn comes to, and to her great relief, finds herself alone. "I wonder where this Nantucket is?" she absently wonders aloud. The young woman rises to her feet, dusting off her skirt. With a shrug she picks up the bucket she dropped; that water isn't going to collect itself. Some poor soul who apparently feels the urge to show everyone his private parts shouldn't shock her so; perhaps one day she will end up marrying such a confused individual without her even knowing.

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Having left a trail of fainting women (not all from shock) and intimidated men in his wake, our troubled hero wanders into the inn. His arsenal of dirty limericks is almost depleted. Teagan makes a mental note to memorize some more, or perhaps even compose a few himself. He is quite the accomplished poet. The inn is empty, save for Lloyd, the bartender. Berwick is so inconspicuous, the Bann doesn't even notice him. Coat open, Teagan jumps before the counter and declaims: "There was a young man named Lanny, the size of whose prick was uncanny..."

Lloyd doesn't even flinch. "Is there anything I can get you, ser?" The tone of his voice suggests he is having a perfectly normal conversation with a perfectly normal individual.

For a moment, the compulsive nobleman is taken aback. This isn't the reaction the people he shows his bits to usually exhibit. "H-his wife, the poor dear..." he continues hesitantly.

"No, nothing?" Most unexpectedly, Lloyd reaches over the counter and takes a firm, but comfortable hold of the other man's balls. The expression on the portly bartender's face stays perfectly blank as he rolls the tender globes between his fingers. Nothing betrays any emotion.

The next line of his limerick comes out in a moan: "Took it in her ear..." This has never happened before. Teagan has had women scream and faint on him, men shout and swear, but nobody has ever ventured to touch him. And Lloyd's fingers seem to know exactly what they're doing. Who'd have thought it?

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From his dark and quiet place in the corner, Berwick watches the scene in mounting arousal. His hand automatically glides down to where his prick is straining against the front of his pants. Nothing turns the elf on more than hot boy-on-boy action. Granted, Lloyd isn't exactly the sexiest of men, but the moans the stranger in the snazzy hat utters make him harder than Andraste's birthstone. Since there is nobody else around, Berwick reaches in and reveals his aching trouser snake. Eyes riveted to the two men close by, he eagerly begins flogging the Grand Cleric.

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Sweat beads on Teagan's brow, but this time it has nothing to do with anxiety. The way his balls are being massaged is so mind-numbingly good, he can hardly speak. Which poses a problem with his other compulsion: the reciting of poetry, or on this case, limericks. You didn't think he does this for fun, did you? Mind straining to remember the last line, the nobleman stammers: "A-and... it-it..." It what? Rhymes with Lanny and uncanny...

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Bella, who was in the back doing dishes and making sure she was away from Lloyd's groping hands, unsuspectingly walks into the common room and goggles at the sight before her. In the corner, an elf is busily galloping his maggot. Her boss is bent over the counter, one beefy hand occupied with the testicles of a well-formed man whose dashing headgear makes him completely unrecognizable. The waitress promptly passes out from sheer revolt.

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Strange. Bella knows she is awake and her eyes are open. Yet she can see nothing. She can hardly breathe either. A pleasurable sensation at her cunny elicits a low moan from her lips; that's when she notices someone is sitting on her face.

Berwick has his head between the redhead's thighs (yes, the curtains match the drapes), his tongue swirling little circles around her clit. When he found her passed out, he couldn't believe his luck. His preference goes out to men, but there is nothing wrong with a bit of pussy now and then. And this is obviously some high quality stuff. With obvious relish he plunges his tongue deep into the wet recess of her pink flesh while wiggling his bum into the woman's face.

_Oh, why the fuck not? At least it's not Lloyd._ She knows this, because the sheer weight of her employer would have killed her by now. Bella firmly grabs the guy by the ass, simultaneously massaging his taint with lips and tongue. This action earns an approving moan from her partner. Now, she isn't too much into rimming per se, but she has found that giving someone what they want makes them shove off all the sooner. And besides, it's not like he's not doing anything for her. His exquisite licking isn't far away from making her come.

After quickly slickening her finger, Bella slides it up the elf's bum until she feels the bump of his prostate against the tip. She initiates a firm massage of the gland and sucks his cock into her mouth.

Berwick almost jumps for joy. Finally, a woman who knows what he likes!

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Teagan's fevered mind is struggling to remember that last line. He has to finish the limerick, _he has to_! Broken rhyme can only lead to disaster! But damn it if the barkeep doesn't know how to properly fondle a set of balls. Voice nothing but a hoarse whisper, the Bann stutters: "A-and it..." That is where he is stuck. He cannot for the life of him remember the last few words. The pressure in his gut is maddening, the muscles in his legs tightening with every step his orgasm comes closer. And then, at the exact moment that he comes, he remembers: "And it came out the hole in her fanny!" At least, that's what he meant to say. All that comes out of his mouth is a series of whimpering moans as he pumps out a large amount of semen, onto Lloyd's sleeve.

Still utterly stone-faced, the portly man licks the cum away and swallows audibly. "Are you sure I can't get you anything?"

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Just as Bella and Berwick climax at exactly the same time, an enraged voice thunders: "_What the deuce is going on here_?" That's one ruined orgasm they're never going to get back.

"Eamon!" Teagan cries out in surprise, scrambling to close his coat. It's still obvious he's not wearing pants underneath though; the three or so inches of hairy leg visible between the hem of his coat and the tops of his white knee socks prove as much. Still, no cause for worry. It's the hat, you see. He turns to find his brother standing there, who should still be in a coma with Isolde wailing next to his bed.

For the first time, Lloyd displays some emotion with a tired sigh. "Tomas... What are you up to this time? How'd you manage to steal the Arl, hm?"

"Aww..." From behind the Arl of Redcliffe, a young, mischievous face peers out. "Damn it Lloyd, you're always onto me! Well, the castle is deserted. Not a soul stirs there."

"What were you doing there in the first place, young man?" Teagan questions sternly, twisting his voice. Awesome hat or no, you can never be too sure.

Tomas shrugs. "I had my eye on the blacksmith's daughter. Couldn't find her either. So," he pats unconscious Eamon on the shoulder, "I decided to take this old bloke with me and have some fun!"

"But where is the Arlessa?" the Bann wonders, not at all finding it strange that some random villager is using his brother as a life-sized hand puppet. "Have you not seen her?"

Again the puppeteer shrugs. "I don't know, man." He chuckles, a conspiratorial grin on his lips. "It wouldn't surprise me if she were banging that young man who is tutoring her son!"

* * *

_Tune in for the next episode of _Redcliffe_, where Lady Isolde has problems of her own. _


	2. Isolde's Troubles

_Despite the low ratings, welcome to the second episode of _Redcliffe_. Lady Isolde is deeply troubled, but finds a kind soul willing to help her._

* * *

Meanwhile, back at Castle Redcliffe, the Arlessa is having some problems of her own. It's been weeks since Eamon fell into a coma, and she's just not sure how much more she can take. She spends each night by his bed, praying fervently to blessed Andraste. When she ventures into their master bedroom and finds Eamon missing, she sees it as a sign from the Maker: Eamon is gone, and it's time for her to get laid (how she makes this connection is beyond any rational reason; she can only attribute it to the haze of lust that has been hanging about her for what seems like eons). Unfortunately, given the recent attacks at Redcliffe, there is no one around to sate her burning desire… save for the mage that had poisoned her husband… Isolde rushes to the dungeons, eager to use the new toy that she picked up in the Denerim Market District.

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Jowan sits in his cell, his hands covering his face. He can't believe his shitty luck. First the Circle discovers his dabbling in blood magic, and then he's caught poisoning Arl Eamon. Loghain had assured him that he would be rewarded for serving Ferelden, though it seems that the teyrn has abandoned poor Jowan. He lets loose a gusty sigh and leans back against the stone wall. The cold rocks send a chill down his spine. He's not sure why the Arlessa insists upon such strange prison garb, but he's not exactly in a position to complain. He glances down at the only scrap of clothing that he's wearing. He's reasonably sure that the garment is meant to be smallclothes, though these particular smallclothes are made of leather, and the piece of material meant to cover his rear is instead a string that's wedged straight up his arse.

As he continues to contemplate his wretched situation, he hears the click-clack of footsteps tapping down the dungeon stairs. His head jerks toward the sound, and he leaps up, his long delicate fingers gripping the iron bars that cage him. "Hello? Who's there?" he calls out. His breath catches in his throat as the Arlessa steps out of the shadows.

"You have much to answer for, Jowan," she whispers menacingly.

Jowan's eyes widen at her veiled threat. The woman is wearing a white, silk negligee and a lace wrap. He might find her beautiful if it weren't for her nasally voice and the fact that she's a complete bitch. His gaze drops to her pelvic region. Much to his surprise, the silk seems to be tenting. It's almost as though the Arlessa has an erection. "M-my lady… what are you doing here?"

"You poisoned my husband," Lady Isolde hisses. "It's your fault I have not been fucked in weeks! I intend to rectify this situation." Her eyes narrow as she strokes the silk surrounding her 'erection'.

Jowan swallows audibly, his hands held up in an effort to ward her off. "Now let's think about this rationally, Lady Isolde. How would your husband feel if you had relations with the man that poisoned him?" His heart rate increases when Lady Isolde steps forward and unlocks his cell.

"I will simply tell him that you took advantage of me while I was torturing you. Who do you think he'll believe, his loving wife, or some pretty boy blood mage?" Her tongue darts out of her mouth and she licks her lips hungrily, her heated stare taking in Jowan's lean form and the lovely smallclothes she'd issued him. "Bend over," she commands.

"W-what? No!" he sputters. He watches in abject horror as Lady Isolde lifts the negligee over her shoulders and tosses it to the ground. Attached around her waist is a makeshift cock, and it's quite possibly the biggest dong Jowan has ever seen. "You can't possibly mean to… to put that thing in my…" It's not like Jowan is a stranger to penis. The woman of his dreams, Lily, was gifted in such areas. He never knew he had such a love for all things phallic until he met his lady love. His love that had a cock that rivalled his own. His mind wandered to the nights he and Lily spent together, he on his knees between her legs, her thick member pulsing between his lips… He grows hard as a rock just thinking about it.

He thought they'd be together forever… especially when she'd taken his virginity. Only, it was all a lie. She'd been doing this to all the apprentices. Oh she'd pretended that it was his dabbling in blood magic that sent her away, but he knew it was because she'd grown tired of him, and that she longed for an ass tighter than his own.

"Snap out of it!" Lady Isolde screeches. "Do as I say, and bend over."

Something happens to Jowan at that precise moment. He no longer wishes to play the victim. He will be his own man. As his first act as a man of merit, he casts a Mind Blast spell on Isolde, and ducks by her, set in his pursuit of freedom. He climbs the dungeon stairs and prays to the Maker that no one will question his attire.

"JOWAAAAAAAN!" Lady Isolde screeches from the top of her lungs. "You will not get away with this!" The Arlessa slumps to the floor, her strap on digging mockingly into her abdomen. She'd come so close to taking a man this evening, and yet the fates always seemed to be working against her. It had been a long time since Isolde had shed a real tear. Certainly she'd shed her fair share in order to obtain what she wanted, to curry favour and sway people to her side. But on this eve, her tears are genuine. She is so fucking _horny_, and there is no one around to fill her up with a generous helping of cock.

Her long, delicate fingers travel beneath the waistband of her smallclothes. With a deft circling of her middle finger, Isolde locates the nub of pleasure that has brought her such happiness in the past lonely nights. She gently flicks the hood of her clitoris and begins to chant.

_"__All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands,_

_From the lowest slaves_

_To the highest kings._

_Those who bring harm_

_Without provocation to the least of His children_

_Are hated and accursed by the Maker."_

Sweat beads on Isolde's upper lip as she continues to circle her love bud with increased fervour. Her thumb replaces her middle finger, allowing her index finger to dip into her wet slit.

_"Those who bear false witness_

_And work to deceive others, know this:_

_There is b-b-but one Truth._

_All things are known to our M-Maker_

_And He shall judge their...their…LIES!"_

The orgasm rocks through the Arlessa with an intensity she's never experienced. She lies on the dungeon floor, feeling delightfully boneless. Her breath is expelled in ragged whispers. She almost doesn't hear the shuffling just to the right of her.

"Good evening, my dear lady," whispers a voice hidden in the shadows.

The Arlessa stifles a scream. "Halt! Who goes there!" She slowly reaches for the dagger strapped to her thigh.

"I am the spirit of Valour, my lady, and I heard your prayers. I was sent to aid you in your plight," the spirit responds. Lady Isolde still hasn't gotten a good look at her visitor.

"I-I am not sure I understand what plight you are referring to," she replies shakily, her dagger still in hand.

"Why, your need for deep dicking, of course."

"Pardon me?" Isolde says incredulously.

The spirit steps out of the shadows. He is positively hideous; his skin hangs from him in chunks of rotted flesh, his skin is as sallow as the harvest moon. Fangs protrude from bloodless lips, and it takes all of Isolde's courage not to run away screaming. "I have come as an answer to your prayers, my lady. Many think the desire demons are the ones who possess the ability to bring mind blowing pleasure, but that simply isn't the case. It is Fade spirits such as I that bring their partners to earth shattering climax. And I guarantee you Isolde, when I'm through with you, you won't be able to sit properly for a week."

Despite the creature's hideous features, Isolde can't help but note that her smallclothes are completely damp. "You are one of the monsters terrorizing the city, are you not?" she asks.

"This body is wreaking havoc on your fair city, but I assure you, the spirit within wishes nothing more than to fuck you sideways. Now, enough needless talk, come – rut with Valour!" The spirit grabs hold of Isolde, wrenching the dagger from her wrist. In such close proximity, the Arlessa is able to smell the putrid stench of decay wafting from the corpse. _I don't know if I can go through with this-OH!_

Valour takes advantage of her momentary distraction and cups the Arlessa's sopping wet mound. He holds it possessively and whispers into her ear, "_mine._" A shiver runs down Isolde's spine as a grey, wart covered tongue darts out of Valour's lips to lick along the length of Isolde's cheek. She knows she should find the act deplorable, but something inside of her gives way.

"Fuck me, Valour! Show me what a spirit of the Fade can do to one such as I!" Without further ado, Valour grabs hold of the Arlessa and strips her of her breastbinder, revealing little boobies that don't really need one. But wearing something lacy and pretty is just something the vain Arlessa cannot resist.

Valour sniggers as he takes in the extra appendage protruding from Isolde's pelvic area. "Planning on using this on the poor unsuspecting blood mage, were you?" In one swift movement he rips the strap on from her waist. "I think I can put it to better use." Isolde lets out a startled shriek as Valour tears her smallclothes from her body. He reaches down with three decaying digits and inserts them into her liquid heat. "You _are_ wet for me, dear woman," he rasps into her ear.

Another shiver runs down the Arlessa's spine. "Y-yes… I need you inside me..."

"And so you shall," Valour thrusts into Isolde's drenched channel. He pistons into her relentlessly as he grabs hold of her legs and wraps them around his waist. Isolde cries out in equal parts ecstasy and disgust, her quim shuddering violently around his rotten member. Her fingernails dig into the soft flesh of his neck, scratching down the length of his back. His flesh shreds beneath her nails, leaving long gouges in their wake. He continues to pommel into her at an alarming rate, when suddenly, she feels a slight prodding at the puckered hole of her arse.

"Valour!" she shrieks. Before she can protest, he's buried her strap on straight into her chocolate starfish. Never has she felt so full. He plunges the pseudo-cock in and out of her arsehole mercilessly. Her head lolls backward from the mixture of pain and pleasure. Her throat is raw from her constant moaning, and she is near to bursting. Suddenly, Valour's thrusts increase in tempo, and as the walls of her cunny contract, she milks the corpse for all he's worth (how a corpse is able to ejaculate is beyond her knowledge, but he does so, regardless). He lowers her to the floor, and she lies spent in his arms.

"That was…incredible. Andraste blessed me indeed when she sent you to me," Isolde murmurs.

"Andraste had nothing to do with it," Valour replies. "I saw a willing female looking for a tumble, and I took up the opportunity. I'm the spirit of Valour, not the spirit of Chastity." His life force begins to drain from him, pulling him back to the Fade.

"Is there nothing you can leave behind for me to remember you by?" Isolde beseeches, her torn garments held up to shield her nudity.

"Simply look inside yourself, and you will find me," Valour replies cryptically, and without another word, he fades into the abyss.

Isolde frowns, flopping down on the clothes that she and Valour had just made love on. "Look inside myself? What poppycock!" she grumbles. She turns onto her side and notices a slight discomfort. It seems to be coming from her nether regions. She reaches down with one hand and lets out a peel of laughter. There in the palm of her hand, is Valour's greyed and decayed cock.

* * *

_Tune in for the next episode of _Rowdy Misadventures in Redcliffe_, where Ser Perth is in a bit of a pickle._


	3. Perth's Pickle

_Even with the still crappy ratings, we have enough funds to continue our labour of love. The writer is enthusiastic, the cameraman pleased as punch, the actors are ecstatic and the catering team is going bonkers with joy. With that said, welcome to the third episode of _Redcliffe_. This time Ser Perth has trouble getting into Redcliffe Castle, but is soon distracted by a pleasant treat._

* * *

Ser Perth has no way of getting into Castle Redcliffe, and this troubles him. He was halfway to Denerim when he'd heard of the undead besieging the town he is in service of. Of course, he immediately turned back, only to be greeted by closed gates and no other way of entering the castle.

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You might ask then, how Tomas managed to steal Arl Eamon. "We all played the game!" you clamour. "The castle is overrun by undead! How can a random guy get in and kidnap the Arl? _How_?" Well you see, under his guise of mediocrity Tomas is actually a ninja, and with his überleet-ninja-skills he scaled the castle wall to get inside and kept to the shadows (you know, complete with hanging off the ceiling and shit), avoiding any shambling corpses. "But how did he get out again, accompanied by an unconscious old man?" you demand to know. Tomas is a very _strong_ ninja, and he tied the Arl to his back so he could climb out again without too much trouble. Satisfied now? Good. Stop interrupting me.

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Now, back to Ser Perth and his troubles. If he is perfectly honest with himself, the knight is in no hurry to be inside the castle and meet with its inhabitants. A visible shudder travels down his spine at the thought of the Arlessa, who always stares at him as if she wants to rip off his armour and devour him whole. Were he privy to the information as to the goings on in the dungeons right now, he would be in even less of a hurry to enter the castle. Vehemently, Perth shakes his head. That woman gives him the willies. Ugh, and that over the top Orlesian accent! Her horribly nasally voice! He doesn't even _like_ women; he likes...

The man's eyes absently follow the happily whistled tune his ears pick up and grow wide at the strange sight that greets him. His mouth goes dry, his knees go weak. Right in front of him is the resident dwarf, Dwyn, and one of his mercenaries. This isn't so strange, because Perth has seen them many times already; no, the strange thing is that Dwyn is absolutely, completely and utterly naked. In his hand he has a leash, to which his crony is attached. The large, burly human is covered in only a few leather straps that emphasize the wide expanse of his chest and moves on all fours, pretending to be a dog. He is panting like one, occasionally barking, even.

Perth isn't sure what to make of all this. Despite his confusion, his cock is straining against his codpiece, begging for attention. How he loves hairy, exhibitionist dwarves and random guys pretending to be dogs. How did they _know_? Is someone pulling his leg? He sure wishes someone were pulling his pudding. The poor, befuddled knight is quite eager to tickle his pickle. Or to fuck the dwarf up the arse while the mercenary licks his balls. That would be even better.

"Great weather, huh?" Dwyn remarks casually, as if he's fully clothed and his sexy pet isn't scratching himself behind the ear with his foot. "The sun is shining, there is no rain. Best day I've ever seen on the surface." A bright grin adorns the dwarf's face.

For almost a full minute, the troubled knight has absolutely no idea what to say. Is this shit for real? Is he dreaming? Is there something in the air that makes him delusional? Did Bella spike his mineral water? Finally he decides to just play along and see what happens. "Uh, y-yes, splendid weather indeed." Perth has a very hard time to keep himself from whimpering aloud when the leashed crony sidles up to him and begins rubbing his face against his thigh in greeting. "Good boy," the knight whispers huskily, scratching his fingers across the other man's closely cropped scalp. This earns him a happy bark and causes the dog to sit down, and get this, start licking his genitals. Perth's prick is now almost boring a hole into the metal of his codpiece, so engorged that the man is becoming lightheaded.

"So I say to the merchant: "No way, man! Twelve sovereigns is far too much for a sword of that quality!" Does he take me for a fool, or something?" Dwyn is still occupied with his small-talk, and quite passionately too. There is a frown on his face and everything, while he rants about the outrageous prices some merchant had the audacity of charging him. How dare he!

Perth stopped listening minutes ago. Various scenarios involving dwarves and human dogs bent over before him and moaning in utter delight tumble through his feverish brain. A trail of drool drips down his chin, sparkling in the sunlight. Suddenly the knight is alerted by a strange feeling, and looks down. It turns out that the crony is happily licking his boot; his pink tongue is caressing Perth's ankle, his wide brown eyes innocently looking up at him. This proves to be too much for the poor man and his clothing: with a loud *_pling_* his codpiece flies clean off and hits the dog smack dab in the middle of the forehead. With a gasp, the knight bends down. "Poor puppy! Are you okay?"

The mercenary utters a sad whine, pawing at his injury like a poor little doggy. Not without reason, I might add. The metal codpiece was catapulted with quite a bit of force, and thus caused a bleeding lump. Oh dear. They don't make codpieces the way they used to, I tell you. I say, if that thing had been half the quality they were when I was still young... Ahem! Sorry.

Soothingly, Perth pets the distressed dog until he calms down. Whimpering in gratitude, the crony clasps his muscular arms around the knight's equally muscular leg and begins humping it like his life depends on it. Naturally, the confused knight almost faints, that's how hot he thinks a human dog humping his leg is. In all the commotion, neither he nor the dog have noticed how after the codpiece went flying away, his smallclothes slowly but surely succumbed to his now almost painfully stiff cock. And, maybe I hadn't mentioned this before, but holy crap, that thing is a more than average size.

Dwyn whistles appreciatively. "Well, this weapon is _definitely_ worth twelve sovereigns!" He sashays a bit closer to the tall human and asks with a saucy grin: "Would you mind if I inspect the goods a bit more closely?" Without waiting for an affirmative answer the dwarf promptly grabs a hold of the rampaging organ, giving it a firm squeeze.

Perth is ready to faint; this gets even worse when Dwyn takes his hard cock in his mouth. A yelp of surprise and pleasure sounds. The tickling of his moustache only adds to the sensation. During the blowjob that would put even a Nilfisk to shame (and you should know that nothing sucks like a Nilfisk), the knight thanks the sweet Maker, blessed Andraste, his lucky stars and anything else he can think of for this wonderful opportunity. But then the dog whimpers pitifully, and Perth opens the eyes he barely remembers closing. The first thing he sees is the most delightful little pink arsehole he has ever laid eyes on. The crony is on his knees, shamelessly offering himself to the man who was kind enough to pet him when he had a sad.

And just like that, Perth comes harder than he's done in all of his presumably thirty- or forty-something long life. An entire bucket of cum comes out of him; it erupts out of Dwyn's mouth and down his chin. His beard and chest hair are becoming matted and sticky with that tasty non-dairy treat. "By the Stone, dude, are you a man or a horse?" The dwarf sounds angered, impressed and intimidated, all at the same time. Try as he might, he can't wipe off the gallon of semen he was just bathed in.

All awkwardness abandoned, the knight grabs him by the hair and neighs like the stallion that he is. Dwyn quickly picks up on the unsubtle hint, sucking the limp cock dangling before his mouth back to its full blue-veined glory. As soon as it is as hard as a rock once more, the dwarf anoints it with the slippery cum he has all over his face. "Oh yeah, give that little hole a good stretch," he growls, pressing the tip against his crony's entrance.

Perth is fully through the mercenary's backdoor of love in no time. The tunnel is tight, but very giving. Without any mercy, the horny human ploughs the whimpering dog to within an inch of both their lives. "I hope you got your hiking boots on, puppy, because you and I are going on a wild trip to brown town!" Perth's normally so soothing and gentle voice is rough and raspy; puppy approves. In his leather pouch, his already rock-hard trouser trout grows to immense proportions. Another flimsy article of clothing bites the dust.

"Gee Sparky, that's the seventh leather pouch you've destroyed this month," Dwyn says, sadly shaking his head. "What am I to do with you?"

Just in time, "Sparky" swallows a hateful comment about larger pouches, and decides to moan dog-like instead. He has better things to do than bicker with his master. Perth smacks his partner hard on the bum. "Do you like this, doggy?" Harder and faster he fucks him, so hard his cock might snap off if he makes a wrong move. "Howl for me, little mutt!" Exactly like he has done every full moon, the crony howls hard enough to be heard all the way over in Denerim. "Good boy." The knight digs a tasty treat from his pocket and feeds it to his precious lapdog.

Sparky pants happily between pleasured whimpers. His special spot is being stimulated like nobody's business. Stars are swimming in his vision, great amounts of pre-cum are dripping from his one-eyed wonder worm. Soon, very soon, his family jewels will spurt their golden load.

Dwyn, who has been watching with interest for a while now, feels a little restless. He wants a piece of the action. A slice of the cake. Finally he clambers onto his mercenary's back, so that his well-packed dwarven sausage is practically in the tall human's face. "You want some of this, don't you?" he rasps, stroking along the length.

"Do I!" Perth immediately sucks the thing into his mouth, arching his back so that he can play Dwyn's flesh flute, fuck the dog and wank his willy too. Sparky's arse contracts so deliciously, that Perth blows his load and accidentally swallows the dwarf's cock, making him come as well. The throbbing of the knight's boner in his butt and the iron grip the man has on his doggy dong, shove Sparky over the edge as well. A happy end is had by all. And just in time.

With a soft thud Tomas lands behind the intrepid trio. Dwyn looks at him incredulously. "Where by the Paragons' tools did _you_ come from?"

"I was on the windmill, scouting out the area." The ninja scoffs and folds his arms before his chest, his forehead pulled in a grim frown. "当たり前だろう?" He smacks his forehead. "Right, sorry, you don't understand that. So, I bet you boys enjoyed the sight of the mage sneaking by in his thong, huh?" Grinning suggestively, he adds: "If I weren't such a ladies' man, I would definitely tap that."

"What, where? I didn't see anything!" the three wanton man-sluts exclaim in perfect harmony.

Tomas raises his eyebrow. "How could you not have seen that? He walked right past you!" In disbelief he shakes his head. "Never mind. What I actually wanted to tell you, is that a group of outsiders is headed this way."

"Fuck!" the crony exclaims, his voice oddly high-pitched for such a manly fellow. "We should get out of here, boss!" Promptly he slings Dwyn onto his back. "I had fun, Ser Perth, we should do this again sometime!" he calls over his shoulder as he races away with the dwarf.

Face as red as Andraste's knickers during that time of the month, the knight tucks his goods neatly out of sight. The codpiece luckily is at his feet, so the man is decent once more in no time. "You... you won't tell anyone of what you saw us do, will you?" he questions his companion nervously, shuffling his feet like a timid schoolgirl.

Tomas laughs heartily, clapping the other man on the pauldron. "Don't you worry, Ser Perth. What happens in Redcliffe, stays in Redcliffe!"

* * *

_**Due to technical difficulties, the Monkeybrain Translation Team couldn't get up their subtitles. Tomas' Japanese line means: "Shouldn't that be obvious?" (Romanized: atarimae darō?)**_

_Tune in for the next episode of _Rowdy Misadventures in Redcliffe_, where the poor apostate Jowan awaits a surprise in the Chantry. _


	4. Jowan's Joust

_A writer's strike has crippled us for almost a month, but fear not! Part four of _Randy Redcliffe _is finally here! Cold and nervous, Jowan arrives in the Chantry, where he finds refuge. Or does he?_

* * *

A party of familiar adventurers (cue the applause and whistling) is close to Redcliffe. Dog the dog's ears pick up, and he whines curiously. His master, Grey Warden Alistair, tilts his head and listens intently. "Do you hear howling?"

"Gee, like, I dunno..." Frances Cousland twirls a lock of her greasy hair around her grimy finger. "Like, could be wolves around here or something..."

"Out of the question," Morrigan says. "If there were wolves around here, I would know. Besides that, the howling sounded... human."

Frances rolls her eyes. "Oh, like, please, Morrigan, as if humans can _really_ howl like that." She hates it when the swamp witch opens her mouth. Despite telling herself that is because Morrigan isn't very nice, deep inside Frances knows that she just envies the woman's beauty. She would like, be so totally happy if she could look like that!

"I once howled like that." Oghren chuckles his sleazy chuckle. "Branka was riding me like a bronto, her tits swinging in my face..."

"La la la!" Alistair claps his hands to his ears. "Can't hear you!" Neither does he hear the Dalish elf who is following the party.

"Wait for me, you bastards!" Theron Mahariel screams in rage. "That pimply bitch isn't even a Grey Warden! She's just some whore Duncan picked up by the side of the road!" Even after running for hours on end, the elf isn't close at all to being out of breath. "I didn't go through the Joining for this stupid shit! _Alistaaaair_!"

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Jowan is frozen to the bones, dressed in only the leather thong Isolde so desperately wanted to see him in. Yet he is too occupied with spying for people to notice. His eyes nearly roll from their sockets as he sees an almost fully armoured man fucking another man, who is on hands and knees and wearing almost the same as the unfortunate mage. On the back of the man on the receiving end, sits a dwarf. The armoured human is busily giving him head.

_Where by Andraste's shiny silk knickers did I end up now?_ Jowan shakes his head and quietly sneaks past the occupied trio. They are too busy to notice him, thankfully. On his way out of the castle, the apostate has mulled over where he wants to go. In his devious mind the plan has hatched to seek refuge in the Redcliffe Chantry, pretending to be a fugitive from Lothering. He arrived here in secret to tutor young Connor, so that might work. Frowning, he looks down on his mostly naked, gooseflesh-covered skin. A sex slave fugitive, he had better make that. The whip marks on his back can only be helpful in that story. With a pang of regret he shakes off some fond memories of his well-endowed Lily and makes his way to the Chantry, hiding behind bushes and trees as he goes.

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Mother Hannah sighs and sits in her old rocking chair. She has grown weary of having to deal with demands of all the whiny villagers. All she wants is to partake in her own needs. It has been so long since a willing young man has entered the Chantry, and she knows her nether regions are growing dry from misuse. She's all but given up hope when suddenly a gust of wind rouses her from her contemplations. A lean, handsome looking young man stumbles through the wooden double doors of the house of worship. But it isn't his good looks that hold the priestess's attention, it's the leather thong that the young man is sporting. He leans against the door, his breath coming out in ragged exhalations. It's quite obvious he's running from something - or someone.

"May I help you, child?" Mother Hannah asks.

The young man's head jerks up and assesses the threat that the old woman might pose. Seeing no outward danger, he slowly enters the Chantry, his hands covering his leather clad crotch. "I'm afraid that I'm being pursued by…" he swallows audibly at this point. "The arlessa." He begins to fidget nervously, and is obviously cold from having to run through the village bare ass naked.

Mother Hannah stands from her rickety old chair and takes hold of an old woollen blanket, which she wraps around the young man's shoulders. "What is your name, child?"

Jowan hesitates a moment. Is it possible she's heard of him? He has no choice but to take a chance. "My name is Jowan."

Mother Hannah's eyes widen considerably. "The maleficar that was locked in the castle dungeon…"

Jowan falls to his knees, the corner of his wool blanket falling away to reveal a particularly attractive shoulder. "Please, your reverence, don't send me back there! I beg of you!"

Mother Hannah's eyes gleam wickedly as she licks her lips lasciviously. "I'm sure there's something we can work out…" Without further preamble she reaches up and unclasps the buttons of her Chantry robes. They fall away and pool at her feet on the floor. Jowan is rendered speechless. Beneath her robes is a leather bustier, which does wonders for her aging yet still delightfully full bosom. Now Jowan never thought himself a fan of mature women, but this minx standing before him is giving him a major case of wood. A belt hangs loosely from her hips, showcasing various riding crops. She selects the largest of the bunch and beckons Jowan toward her, her finger hooked in a come hither motion.

Never one to deny a lady of the Chantry, Jowan crawls toward her on all fours. As he reaches her feet, he feels a sharp sting on his rear end, and the distinct snap of the riding crop slapping against flesh. A small whimper escapes the apostate's lips.

"Do you seek forgiveness for your sins against the Maker and our prophet Andraste?" Mother Hannah demands in a husky voice.

"Yes… your reverence…"

_THWACK!_

"I think you mean, 'Yes Mistress Mercy'," Mother Hannah hisses.

Jowan lets loose another whimper. "Y-yes, Mistress Mercy."

"Much better. Now, I want you to lie on your back and show me just how much of a penitent sinner you are…"

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Leliana trudges through the near deserted streets of Redcliffe. Thus far she has seen little action. Apparently Alistair prefers taking Mahariel on their missions, leaving her behind to contemplate whether or not her vision was in fact one from the Maker. She decides that the best course of action is a little prayer and perhaps some guidance from the Chantry's revered mother. The Chantry itself isn't hard to find, though with her keen hearing, she's able to make out muffled voices coming from inside. She stealthily enters the Chantry, not wanting to disturb anyone in the midst of confession or prayer. She slides into one of the battered pews and is just about to bow her head in prayer, when she hears something that is most assuredly _not_ the sounds of someone asking for forgiveness… At least not in the standard sense.

Right before her eyes is a _very_ naked young man riding an elderly woman in a leather getup. Leliana inches closer to the couple, and is able to make out several of their words.

"Oh Mistress, your cunt is like finely aged cheese, and is like velvet wrapped around my member… How could I have gone so long without knowing the wonders of sex with an older woman!" the young man is crying out.

"Shut your trap, slave, and thrust harder! I'm not made of porcelain! I haven't had a man in weeks, and I intend to milk you of every drop!" the old woman brings a riding crop down across the young man's back, and Leliana is able to distinguish several lash marks marring the young man's otherwise flawless skin.

Now Leliana isn't the type to find S&M enticing, but the display she is spying on brings her back to her bard days, watching nobles partake in their… baser desires. Soon she finds herself unable to simply watch the priestess cum dominatrix, for her own honey pot has grown slick with desire. She desperately searches for something – anything to quell her need. Soon her eyes land on a particularly thick and long devotional candle. She decides that this will be the perfect instrument in relieving her pent up sexual frustration. She hurriedly unbuckles the clasps that hold her battle skirts in place, and inserts the candle into her slick, pretty little quim. A long and loud moan escapes her lips, and she glances toward the couple to ensure that she wasn't heard. Luckily, they are quite deeply engaged in their own copulation. So Leliana lays back against the pew, and begins to thrust the devotional candle in and out of her sopping wet quiver. What better way to prove her love for the Maker?

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

"Did you hear that?" Jowan gasps out between tongued kisses from his mistress.

"No, all I hear is your snivelling. Do you wish to be forgiven or not?" Mistress Hannah growls.

Jowan's eyes widen in horror. The last thing he wants is to be denied pleasure from his aged beauty. He bucks his hips upward, pistoning into her quivering cunt, which through the years has taken on a resemblance to roast beef, and everyone who knows Jowan knows he absolutely _loves_ roast beef. His mistress cries out with pleasure as her inner muscles squeeze his love staff, and he knows he's about to paint her insides with his seed. He feels her burgeoning climax, and is all too happy to join her in the heat of ecstasy. She lies atop him for several moments, her leather corset sticking to his sweaty flesh. Finally she peels away from him and shoots him a wicked grin, and he notices she's missing a few teeth. She presses her lips to his, and he happily slides his tongue into her mouth. With one last swat to his bottom she stands and stares down at him.

"Well, I'd have to say that's worth at least a few days of sanctuary. Maybe tomorrow I'll honour you with a velvet rub," Mother/Mistress Hannah cackles.

Jowan isn't sure what a velvet rub is, but it sure sounds good!

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Leliana lays boneless in the pews after having climaxed several times. Her thick candle is slick with her own juices. Unsure of what to do with it, she licks the candle several times in the hopes that no one will notice the difference. Once she's sure that the copulating couple is out of sight, she scurries over to where the rest of the devotional candles are kept and replaces it in its holder. After a moment of contemplation, she decides to light her candle and says a brief prayer that she'll get lucky during their stay in Redcliffe. After all, it seems like everyone else is, so why can't she get a piece of the action?

* * *

_Tune in for the next episode, where Tomas will run into his natural enemy. Props to the inimitable Draguna, our entire fanbase! _


	5. Hayabusa VS Captain Hook

_Welcome to the fifth episode of _Redcliffe_! Finally, the centuries-old feud between pirates and ninjas shall be decided. But in whose favour?_

* * *

"_Do what you want 'cause a pirate is free, you are a pirate_!" Zevran Arainai is singing his heart out, thoroughly annoying his remaining comrades in the process: "_Yar har fiddle-de-dee, being a pirate is all right to me_!" Even more than he is a swashbuckling Antivan pirate, the elf is an opportunist. One look at the Grey Wardens, and he simply joined them. (We gave him free will here, so he could totally do that.) As soon as he laid eyes on Alistair, he knew that the tall, brawny Warden would soundly kick his ass if he tried anything. Of the Frances girl, he wasn't so sure. And still isn't, actually. She rather gives him the feeling that she is only tagging along, following the handsome Warden like a puppy.

A smile spreads across the piratey assassin's smug face as he recalls the parting orgy he had organized for his crew of assassins. The moaning, the thrusting. Sopping wet cunnies and smooth, tight arses. Rock-hard cocks for all! The poisoned whine afterwards... Well, _they_ had drunk the wine; he naturally had steered very clear of the stuff. Man, burying all those bodies had been a butt-load of work. His arms begin smarting just at the thought of it. But there is nothing wrong with his mouth, oh no Ser: "_Do what you want 'cause a pirate is free, you are a pirate_!"

Now, if you realize that Zev is simply repeating these two lines over and over again, you can imagine why the others are heavily annoyed. Alistair audibly grits his teeth. "Zev, shut _up_." Instead of giving in to this kind request, the pirate kicks it up a notch and breaks into a jig too. Dog the dog is severely amused by this; his melodious whining joins the annoying pirate song in perfect harmony while he bounces around his singing, jig-dancing friend.

Frances, who as always agrees with the Warden, rolls her eyes and whines: "Yeah, like, totally Zev! You should like, totally STFU!" She is thoroughly ignored as well.

"_Zevran_!" Eyes bloodshot and nearly foaming at the mouth, Alistair screams: "_**I swear to the Maker, if you don't-.**_.."

Without even looking, Sten the silent giant quietly reaches over and squeezes a bundle of nerves in the singing elf's shoulder. Promptly Zev falls silent, crumbling into a disorderly heap of bronzed limbs and leather gear. Dog nudges his still form, waits a little, nudges him again and then turns to Oghren for his treats and petting. Maybe the dwarf will give him some of that fun water again, he hopes. It tasted _good_! He can't for the life of him remember what happened after that though.

"Thank you, Sten." Al lets out a long, relieved sigh.

The Qunari nods solemnly. "You're welcome." If ever he and Lloyd were to go into a stoicism contest, the judges would have a hard time deciding the winner.

Happy for the break, the party continues on, minus Zevran. Only Morrigan briefly stays behind, to poke the unconscious pirate with a stick and make sure that he isn't dead. He obviously isn't, so in true Morrigan-fashion, she pokes him again for good measure and then follows the others.

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

Poor Zevran awakes alone, not a single one of his companions in sight. Not even Dog, who is usually begging for the stale hardtacks he still has left from his pillages in the Waking Sea, has opted to stay by his side. Scowling fiercely, the pirate dusts off his white silk shirt with the billowing sleeves and laced up neckline, covered with a leather vest. He picks his tricorne pirate hat, which had fallen off his head when Sten subdued him and places it back. "Arr, ye scurvy land lubbin' bilge rats!" All he was trying to do was liven things up a little. Why can't they appreciate that?

Frances especially bugs him. As we all know, Zev isn't exactly picky when it comes to bed-partners, but not even _he_ would touch the girl with a ten-foot-pole. Which, incidentally, is what he tends to liken his penis to. In any case, not only is Frances Cousland unfeasibly ugly and greasy, she also has the personality of a wet mop. Everything she says is a complaint, her voice sounds whiny and grating and compared to her, Dog smells like a field of honeysuckle in bloom. Yeah, I admit, I was going to say roses, but how corny is _that_? Worst of all, nothing anyone ever does is good enough for Little-Miss-High-And-Mighty-Presumably-Last-Member-Of-A-Slaughtered-Noble-House. Thankfully, he will be free of _her_ a while, at least.

With a sigh Zevran switches his eye patch from his left eye to the right. Not being able to perceive depth is a bitch, but image is everything. He is still fervently praying to Davy Jones that he might one day lose a hand or foot, so that he may install an über-piratey hook or peg leg.

Unbeknownst to our piquant pirate, he is not quite as alone as he thinks he is. Perched on the utmost top of a tree, Tomas the ninja, archnemesis of any pirate, observes his quarry. His beady blue eyes, narrowed to grim-looking little slits, follow his every move.

Zevran snaps out of his reverie about having a buxom beauty on his lap, when a shuriken whizzes past his ear and gets stuck in a tree trunk with a dull thud. "Arrrr!" he yells, shaking his fist. "What's the big idea?"

In true ninja-style, Tomas lands before him in a pose so ultimately ninja-esque, it would put Leonardo, Donatello, Michelangelo and Raphael to shame. This time he is even fully decked out like a ninja, in all black with only his eyes showing. Which really serves no purpose, since it's the middle of the day, but whatever. It's all about image. "Pirate..." he growls menacingly. From the scabbard tied to his back, he draws his _katana_ and assumes the position. For _battle_, you bunch of perverts.

Zevran stuffs his eye patch down his pocket, so he can at least see properly, and gleefully brings out his cutlass. "Ninja!" Unlike Tomas, he sounds perfectly happy to be face-to-face with his nemesis. True action has been little and far between, because he usually gets dumped at the camp in favour of the giggling Chantry wench. At least, that's what he thinks; whenever Leliana is away, she is on her own, doing her own things. If he knew what she's doing right now, why, his approval rating of her would drastically rise.

"_**Ninja VS. Pirate**_!" a disembodied voice booms. "_**FIGHT**_!"

The two look around in absolute bewilderment for a few moments before shrugging and crossing swords. The swordfight that follows is absolutely awesome, so awesome I fear I will ruin it by attempting to describe it. Trust me though: *~A W E S O M E S A U C E~*. But wait, what have we here? Even though he is duelling his natural enemy, Tomas can't help but notice how handsome this particular pirate is. He's not at all like the grimy, stubble-faced men in the picture books. Amber eyes, luscious lips, the sexiest pointy ears... Our number one ninja has always been a sucker for elves. _Female_ elves. He has no idea at all why his boner is pitching a tent in his loose black pants. The elven pirate's masculine beauty is so overwhelming, that unfortunate Tomas is soon disarmed and on his back in the dust. With Zev straddled atop him to keep him down. Arms crossed before his wiry chest, the pirate smirks down triumphantly on the ninja.

"_**Pirate WINS**_!" the same disembodied voice clamours. Its tone is oozing with a sense of victory.

"Yarr, matey, d'ye have any idea where that be comin' from?" Zevran asks.

Tomas shakes his head. "No, but you have bested me." Under his concealing mask, his Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows thickly. "What will you do with me?" he whispers, not a hint of fear in his voice. Instead he sounds hoarse with longing. Despite spreading the word and repeatedly telling himself that he is a ladies' man _pur sang_, he wants nothing more than to be skewered on the end of this pirate's cutlass. And by cutlass, he really means cock. "Are you going to take my life?"

The assassin/pirate quirks a curious eyebrow at this curious behaviour. Understanding slowly begins dawning on him, especially when he unwittingly slides back and his toned tush ends up sitting on something particularly rigid. "Oh no, me hearty," Zev chuckles mischievously. "I'll not be keelhaulin' ye yet." Forthwith he rips off his victim's mask. The face he reveals is, well, it's not extremely handsome. Nor is it extremely ugly. It's just plain old vanilla flavour mediocre, but for everybody's favourite non-player elf in the Grey Warden party, that is good enough. "Mayhap ye and I could set aside our differences, aye?" he murmurs, gently brushing a few stray wisps of hair from his subdued enemy's face.

"I would like that." Suddenly, Tomas feels very shy under the pirate's kind demeanour. "But how?"

"Well, me fine bucko..." Zevran grins bare his perfectly even white teeth. "Let's first start by findin' ourselves a private place to... _talk_, hmm?" His tone of voice holds great suggestive promise, making the ninja's noodle even harder. Incidentally, the term noodle isn't indicative of size. And then there's the not-so-subtle wriggle of a dashing derriere into a certain individual's crotch. Also promising, and also noodle-fortifying.

Tomas passes a resistance check, enabling him to suppress a particularly loud groan. "I, er, I live nearby," he manages to croak. Didn't pass the check to keep your voice normal, did you? Some ninja you are. "I could take you there." _Or you could take _me_ there_, he thinks. Wildly he shakes his head. _For Amaterasu's sake, what am I _thinking_? _

Reluctantly Zevran rises. "Very well, lad, show us the way."

The ninja promptly leaps up, pulls a smoke bomb from his sash and tosses it on the ground, enveloping the both of them in a thick veil of smoke. He scoops the shorter, lighter elf up into his arms and flies away. Don't look at me funny, it's a ninja thing. As soon as he's done coughing his lungs out, Zevran sputters: "Avast, matey! What's yer..." Then he notices that they are suspended about ten feet up in the air. "What the fu-...! I mean, shiver me timber! Are we... Can ye _fly_?"

"Obviously," Tomas answers dryly. "Not all tales about ninja having supernatural powers are completely thatched together from horseshit."

Silently they fly for a few moments, upwards instead of forward, until they reach their destination. Cleverly concealed between the branches and leaves of a tall, lush, ancient tree, is the small wooden house that Tomas occupies. You see, ever since he was a wee ninja-in-training, he had wanted a tree house. When he passed his gruelling initiation test (like a Harrowing, but with even more death), Tomas decided to live his dream. And has been ever since. The ninja graciously opens his door for his guest and gestures inside. "After you."

Zevran, being a man who enjoys his creature comforts, isn't impressed by the shabby outside of the house. Still he politely removes his hat before walking in. But what of the inside then? Well, much to his dismay, the interior isn't very sexy either. If he knew what that meant, he might call it Spartan. Decorations are non-existent and whatever is in the room, looks strange. The table, for instance, is ridiculously low. "Where... where is the bed?" This is not at all what he had expected.

"我が家へようこそ," Tomas softly whispers into his ear. He has moved close behind his new-found friend, his front pressed intimately to the other's back. His warm breath blows along the exposed curve of a caramel-coloured neck.

The enticing sound of the unknown words sends a shiver down Zev's spine. "Wa ga _what_ now?"

"Welcome to my house," the ninja translates in a low and husky voice. His initial shyness has disappeared; all he wants right now is a bit of pirate sausage. Or rather, a lot of it. He has such great plans for his former nemesis. They involve bits of rope lying around, and maybe some honey…

"Yarr, well, thank ye, me dear lad." Once again the assassin/pirate lays bare his pristine ivories with a saucy smile. "Would ye care for a wee bit of grog?" From his well-stocked belt he pulls a flask, uncorks it and allows Tomas to inhale some of alcoholic vapours.

Figuring that a bit of liquid courage can never hurt, our mediocre hero takes a big swig from the flask. His face immediately scrunches up. "Hoo wee, that is some strong stuff!" His head spins, the room doesn't seem to want to stand still, his eyes nearly fall shut… Wait, what? "You… you sneaky pirate bastard, you poisoned me!"

***.,,,.*"*.,,,.*"*.,,,.***

**Yes, dear watcher, it's a cliff-hanger! Is Tomas going to die? Will sex ensue? Is Zevran really a pirate? Can you really do what you want because you are a pirate and pirates are free? ****Tune in for the next episode… **


End file.
